


rain rain rain and violins

by Livinei



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Im tired, M/M, some of them only briefly there or only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:37:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livinei/pseuds/Livinei
Summary: There's rain, there's violins, there's smitten Mozarts and good friend Da Pontes and sleepy Francescos.





	rain rain rain and violins

**Author's Note:**

> it's 12am i am so tired i have not proofread this and i dont know if its any good but have at it my good dudes

It wasn’t a nice day, many would say. It was raining knives, a shrill wind breaking down branches and tearing away umbrellas from those unfortunate souls who decided to step a foot outside. Mozart had considered leaving Stephanie’s apartment - he’d been paying a visit to show him the music he’d written for one of Stephanie’s song lyrics, and then the storm had taken on - and going home despite both Lorenzo and Stephanie’s invites for him to stay for now, but as soon as he’d taken two steps out the door, he turned heel and jogged back inside. Giving in to Da Ponte’s winning smile and a warm towel being thrown in his face after spending only two seconds outside, he gave Nannerl a call to let her know he wouldn’t make it home for lunch ( _”I love you but I will not drown for you.” “I bet I could name one person you’d be willing to drown for-” “Mmm, what? You’re breaking up, I can’t hear you, okay, anyway bye!”_ ) and prepared for the possibility of having to spend the rest of the day here. It’s not like he had anything against that, particularly - he got along with Stephanie just fine, Da Ponte was here and he was always enjoyable company, and Mozart knew Francesco Salieri was somewhere in one of the bedrooms taking a nap, but even if he should wake up while Wolfgang was still here, he was a very easy person to talk to. What Mozart didn’t enjoy that much was being forced to be somewhere and have little other choice, but he let it go. 

An hour passed, then two. After the first hour or so Stephanie disappeared into the bedroom to join Francesco’s nap time. That left Wolfgang and Lorenzo in the living room, passing the time with mindless chatter and improvisational music sessions, trying to be quiet while laughing in tears about Wolfgang’s tuba impression. 

"Francesco plays the violin, right?" Mozart hummed, eyes falling to the violin resting in one of the red armchairs, clearly frequently used but also obviously well cared for. Da Ponte gave a lazy nod, though ones who knew him could recognize a touch of pride and amazement appear in his gaze.

"He's the best violinist I've heard. And I've heard lots."

Amused crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes as Lorenzo watched Wolfgang's face morph into surprise, and generously didn't laugh when his friend was unable to stop himself from blurting out: 

"Better than Antonio?"

In Mozart's defense (in his own humble opinion), it was a fair question. Salieri - the younger one - was well-taught in several instruments, violin being but one of them. He only ever seemed to practice piano or guitar whenever Wolfgang saw him with an instrument, but he’d heard Antonio play violin exactly once. It'd been an accident. Antonio hadn’t even known he’d been standing at the door, listening, and he honestly hadn't meant to, but the door had been ajar and he couldn't help but overhear, and really it had been a lost battle since that moment. He  _couldn't_  move on, he was rooted to the spot. Mozart would argue - and  _did_  argue - that it wasn't intentional eavesdropping if he actually physically wasn't able to move his legs away from the music, though Da Ponte was yet to be convinced. Anyways, at the time he and Salieri hadn't grown to be close friends yet, and Mozart hadn’t been sure his audience in such manner would have been appreciated, so when Antonio finished the piece, he simply left as quietly as he'd came. But for weeks after that his dreams had been plagued by hauntingly beautiful violin music, and if he’d spent a good amount of his nights composing for a violin with a very specific violinist in mind, shoving the written sheets into the lowest darkest desk drawer, likely never to be seen or heard by another soul... Well, then that was only for him to know.

Right now, however, Lorenzo shook his head and let out a kind chuckle.

“Good  _god_ , Wolfgang, you really are just... gone for him, aren’t you,” he mused, more to himself than anyone else, which didn’t stop Mozart from half-heartedly protesting. “I’m just pointing out he’s good on violin.”

Da Ponte decided to show mercy and let it be, but before he could answer, someone else did.

“Oh he is fantastic - don’t tell him I said that - but who do you think taught him?”

A freshly-woken-up looking Francesco sauntered out of the bedroom, hair sticking out in all possible directions and traces of pillow creases strewn across his cheek, and draped himself over Lorenzo’s lap, faceplanting a decorative pillow on the couch. After a moment, however, he turned his head to have a look at Mozart, and grinned. 

“Why were you thinking about Tonino though? Is it time for a shovel talk yet?” 

Mozart released a breezy laugh - though if he’d been drinking something he’s pretty sure he would have choked - and waved his hand no. Francesco snickered, but his eyes held an amicable look when he huffed, “Impossible, you two. I’m gonna be 80 before one of you finally gets it together and  _makes a fucking move._ ” His gaze moved to Lorenzo, opening his mouth to say something, before suddenly looking back at Wolfgang with a thoughtful expression. The kind of thoughtful that appeared upon generating an  _idea_. 

“You know, now that I think about it,” he started, glancing at the window for a moment, “I left my car at his place two days ago when I was paying a... err, brotherly social visit. He can drive here and give you a lift home, if you give him a call.”

“Isn’t he busy? Or maybe he doesn’t want to come out into the city with this kind of weather.” 

“He’ll come. Trust me,” Fra mumbled into the decorative pillow, “he can’t say no to you.”


End file.
